From Villain to Virtual Sweetheart: The Fake Heir's Grand Scheme(BL)-Chapter 745: The Aftermath…

The atmosphere within the private hospital carried a peculiar stillness, one that pressed down upon every individual present with an almost suffocating weight. Inside, aside from Darcy and Micah, several additional figures had gathered, Patric Harper, Willow, and Jacob, each drawn there by urgency, concern, and an unshakable sense of dread.

Patric, in particular, appeared as though he had been completely undone.

The moment he stumbled into the room, it was immediately evident that he had neither taken the time to compose himself nor properly processed what he had been told. His hair was disordered, his clothing creased and carelessly worn, as though he had thrown them on in a desperate rush. His breathing came unevenly, his chest rising and falling with shallow, erratic movements that betrayed his inner turmoil.

Micah’s gaze lingered upon him, silently observing as Patric moved forward with unsteady steps, his entire being seemingly pulled toward the hospital bed. Toward Ilyas.

The young man lying there remained entirely unresponsive, his body still and unnaturally quiet beneath the stark white sheets. The faint rise and fall of his chest provided the only reassurance that he was still alive, though even that seemed fragile under the circumstances. The lingering effects of whatever substance had been forced upon him kept him in a drugged, unresponsive state.

Patric’s trembling hand hovered in the air for a brief, hesitant moment before finally lowering to rest against Ilyas’s forehead. The contact was feather-light, almost as though he feared that applying too much pressure might somehow cause further harm.

"What... what happened?" he managed to ask, his voice unsteady, the words catching painfully within his throat as though they resisted being spoken aloud.

Darcy drew in a quiet breath before responding, his expression weighed down by a mixture of guilt and restrained anger.

"I came across something by accident," he began slowly, his tone measured yet tinged with unease. "There were photographs... inappropriate ones. Someone had edited images of him in a manner that was clearly indecent. At first, I thought it might have been nothing more than a disgusting act, something isolated and meaningless..."

He paused briefly, his gaze lowering as the memory resurfaced, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly.

"But then I overheard a conversation," he continued, his voice growing heavier. "He was speaking with someone... it did not sound harmless. The way they spoke... it didn’t feel like something minor anymore. That’s when I realised it was worse. So I told Micah."

Another pause followed, this one longer, as though the weight of what he was about to admit bore down upon him with increasing intensity.

"Unfortunately... it appears that my suspicions were correct."

The silence that followed his words stretched uncomfortably, thick with implication.

Darcy’s fingers curled slightly at his sides, his shoulders drawing inward as guilt began to consume him from within.

"I am sorry," he added quietly, the words almost strained. "This happened because of my inaction. If I had said something sooner... if I had recognised the warning signs and reported them immediately... perhaps none of this would have happened."

Patric’s attention shifted toward him then, his reddened eyes lingering upon Darcy’s face. For a brief moment, he said nothing. He simply looked at the young master who had recently joined the Ramsy family, studying him silently.

At the young man who, despite his composed, aloof exterior, was clearly blaming himself for something that was never his fault to begin with.

Patric shook his head slowly, his grip tightening slightly around Ilyas’s hand.

"No," he said hoarsely, his voice thick with emotion. "No, young master... this is not your fault." His throat constricted as he attempted to continue, his voice almost breaking under the strain. "If anything... if it were not for you... I do not even want to imagine what might have happened to him."

His voice faltered at the end, breaking under the weight of that thought.

Micah, who had remained silent until this point, lifted his hand and gently patted Darcy’s back, the gesture subtle yet grounding. "If you’re blaming yourself," he said quietly, his tone calm but firm, "Then what does that make me?"

Darcy turned his head slightly, his brows knitting together in confusion.

"I was only one room away from him," Micah continued, his gaze lowering. "I am also his boss. If we are to speak of responsibility... then I have failed him just as much."

Darcy’s lips parted, ready to protest, ready to reject that notion entirely. He wanted to argue that Micah had entrusted him with this matter, that it had been his own failure not to treat it with the seriousness it deserved.

However, before he could voice those thoughts, Jacob stepped forward, his presence calm yet authoritative.

He extended his arms, placing a steadying hand upon each of his sons’ shoulders, drawing them closer in a gesture that was both firm and reassuring.

"That is enough," Jacob said, his voice low yet resolute. "Neither of you should be placing blame upon yourselves."

Micah and Darcy fell silent, though their expressions remained troubled.

"You were going off a suspicion," Jacob continued. "Without concrete evidence, there would have been little that could have been done through proper legal channels. The fault lies entirely with the individual responsible for this atrocity." His eyes hardened slightly as he spoke. "With that beast."

Despite his words, neither Micah nor Darcy appeared entirely convinced. Their heads lowered once more, their silence speaking volumes.

Willow, who had been observing the exchange from a short distance away, exchanged a brief glance with her father. There was a quiet understanding in that look, one that acknowledged the futility of attempting to reason away guilt once it had taken root. Still, something needed to be done.

"Micah," she said gently, stepping forward. "Darcy."

They both lifted their heads in response, though their expressions remained subdued. "There are two police officers waiting outside," she continued. "They would like to take your statements."

Micah gave a small nod, his posture straightening slightly as he exhaled. Darcy followed suit, though his movements were slower, more reluctant.

Without another word, the two of them turned and made their way toward the door, their shoulders weighed down by everything that had transpired.

Once they had left, the room seemed to grow quieter still.

Patric remained seated beside Ilyas, his hand still wrapped tightly around his brother’s, as though he feared that letting go might cause him to disappear entirely.

"When he wakes up..." Patric began, his voice low, almost hesitant. "Will he be alright?"

There was a pause before he added, more quietly, "What did they do to him?"

The question lingered in the air, heavy with implication. No one could say for certain what substances had been used, what damage might have been inflicted upon him.

Jacob observed him for a moment before speaking. "I will go and find the doctor," he said simply.

With that, he turned and left the room, his footsteps fading into the corridor beyond.

Silence returned once more.

Willow moved quietly toward a nearby table, pouring a cup of hot water before adding two sugar cubes. She stirred it gently, the soft clinking of the spoon the only sound in the room for a brief moment. Then, she stepped closer to Patric, extending the cup toward him.

"Here," she said softly. "You look unwell."

Patric lifted his head, his eyes bloodshot and weary. He accepted the cup with trembling hands, bringing it to his lips for a small, careful sip. "Thank you," he murmured.

Willow did not leave. Instead, she remained standing beside him, a silent presence offering what little comfort she could.

Outside the room, the atmosphere was no less tense as Micah and Darcy gave their statements. Once they were done, Darcy returned when he saw Clyde approaching.

Micah leaned back against the wall, his arms crossed loosely over his chest, his gaze distant.

"I never imagined that Nabil Lobart would be capable of something so vicious," he said after a moment, his voice low. "He likely already knows that the man in the psychiatric hospital isn’t his real brother... and yet, he still chose to act against us."

Clyde, who had arrived quietly, stood beside him.

"I do not believe this was part of his original plan," Clyde replied thoughtfully. "More likely, it was an opportunistic decision. When he realised that Ilyas was Patric’s brother, he saw an opportunity... something he could turn to his advantage later."

As he spoke, he reached out, gently pulling Micah into his arms.

"Perhaps," Micah murmured, though his voice lacked conviction. Despite his uncertainty, he allowed himself to relax slightly, his tense posture easing as he leaned into Clyde’s embrace.

"Did you ensure that this matter cannot be suppressed as it was before?" Micah asked quietly.

Clyde let out a soft hum, his tone almost reassuring. "Relax," he said. "I have already taken care of it."

Micah shifted slightly, his fingers curling faintly against Clyde’s clothing as he inhaled deeply, the familiar sandalwood scent grounding him in a way he had not realised he needed.

"Micah..."

"Hm?" he responded absentmindedly.

"Have you talked to them recently?" Clyde asked, his hold tightening ever so slightly.

Micah tilted his head upward, confusion flickering across his features.

"Talked with who?" he asked.

Before Clyde could respond, another voice interrupted from nearby.

"Hello, Mr Du Pont."

Micah stiffened instantly, his expression darkening as recognition set in.

Crap! Why was he here? When Darcy was just a door away?